


Would you grieve for me

by Laurelwreath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, One True Pairing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurelwreath/pseuds/Laurelwreath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Alys and the Magnar have been wed, but the bedding is yet to come... as well as the journey towards Karhold and their uncertain future in the war-torn North.  </p><p>Are their desperate circumstances the only thing that binds them together, or could two people who have both lost a great deal find solace in each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t want to speculate on the events after ADWD so the ending is intentionally ambiguous.  
> The canon characters who get any substantial screen-time are tagged, but this work also contains several non-canon characters.

The sound of the horn had broken up the feast. Now people are dripping back into the hall, but the celebration has fizzled out. Men are huddled in small groups, talking, and musicians have abandoned their instruments in favor of tankards. Alys had followed the group outside, too. Now she stands in the doorway, weary and unsure what to do. Should she return to the table? Jon has disappeared into his chambers with Tormund, and she has no-one to talk to. Feeling oddly vulnerable, her eyes search the crowd for any familiar face when she feels a hand on her shoulder. For a second, she expects Jon, but turning around, she sees the Magnar beside her. The man surveys the hall for a moment, and when he looks at her, they seem to have come to the same conclusion.

“Looks like this feast is over. “ He nods in agreement.

“Do you want to go back there, or” she feels a blush rising to her cheeks, “perhaps you’d like to come to my bedchamber instead?” She yearns to disappear before anyone thinks of a public bedding.

“Not back there.” He smiles, but Alys senses he is more nervous than he lets on.

“Well, follow me then.” She gives him her hand, and they make their way across the courtyard. The snowstorm shows no signs of letting up. If her mother was right, this marriage will be not so much cold as freezing. Just this moment, however, his hand in hers feels warm and oddly comforting. Hardly anyone is outside, but she catches a glimpse of the Magnar’s brother, standing in the shadow of a doorway with a woman. He hollers at them in the Old Tongue, laughing, and the Magnar’s answer sounds very much like a suggestion to mind his own business. She stifles a giggle.

It was only at the feast that she realized that in addition to a new husband, she was now in possession of in-laws, most of whom probably didn’t understand a single word she spoke.

“This my brother. Emund.” Emund was a shorter, softer version of the Magnar with a full head of curly hair. He was settled comfortably with a beer stein in his hand and a plate full of venison, and didn’t bother to rise to greet Alys, instead just grinning merrily and bowing his head. He gave Alys a look which seemed to take a quick measure of her womanly endowments, and she felt her husband’s hold on her arm tighten. Clearly this brother had always been the one to charm the girls. Well, she had made her choice, and to reassure him, she gave the Magnar a brilliant smile, and was pleased to see him momentarily flustered. Emund’s eyes strayed to the floor, and seeing the queen’s ladies twirling, flushed with the dancing and the warmth, she understood why. The ladies were well out of his reach, though some seemed very curious about these wildlings, glancing at Emund whose attention was diverted by a serving girl. When she passed them by, he was quick to give her bottom a good squeeze, and Alys saw the Magnar frown.

Alys saves a thought for his uncle. Whatever happens next, it cannot be more horrifying than suffering his touch would have been. Truth be told, she is even a little excited. Jon Snow was half laughing when he presented her with this outlandish scheme.

“Lady Alys, The Watch cannot protect you indefinitely. You know you need a husband, and there are many knights at Castle Black who would be happy to wed you.” Alys couldn’t help making a face, and she was sure Jon knew what she thought of the king’s men. She had taken one look at the knights and recognized them for a company of cowards and lechers.

“Without King Stannis’s army, though, they stand no chance of restoring you to your rightful inheritance. If you marry one of them, Karhold will still be forever lost to you. On the other hand, there is someone with… one could say an army of his own.” This was puzzling, insofar as she knew all the lords of the North had sworn allegiance to either Stannis or the Boltons. Then a wild hope rose in her heart. The Night’s Watch was armed, and under Lord Snow’s command. She’d noticed how comely Jon had grown up to be, and on lonely nights, she had wondered whether he thought the same of her…

Maybe her eyes betrayed what was going through her mind, since he turned suddenly serious: “I’m not sure how you will take this. The man I have in mind is a wildling. He is the leader of a ... let’s call it a clan, the Thenns. They claim to be the last of the First Men. He is called the Magnar, it means a lord, but in truth he is more like a king to them. The Thenns are more like us than other free folk. They have laws and obey them; they lived too far up north to come raiding over the wall. I imagine they lived much like the First Men, really. This man, the Magnar, has more than a hundred fighting men at his command, so they could easily take Karhold. I can attest that they are ferocious fighters, and disciplined.”

Alys was speechless. Seeing her face, Jon quickly added: “He isn’t much older than you. His father, the old Magnar, was killed during his attack on Castle Black. His feelings for the Watch are not the most cordial, so I assume helping you to claim Karhold would be in his interest.”

“You haven’t spoken to him?” “Not yet. I do not presume to offer your hand to anyone without your consent.”

Her choices were non-existent, so she was already halfway to accepting this scheme when Jon produced the would-be suitor. Alys paced around the Lord Commander’s chamber, waiting for Jon and this Magnar. She had agreed to Jon’s suggestion almost on a whim, but now fear was threatening to get the better of her. A wildling, a real wildling… She had never really thought of the people north of the Wall. Karhold was too far for them to come raiding, so they were merely the stuff of legends and bedtime stories. Now they were on this side of the Wall, and she might marry one… She couldn’t picture what a wildling king would look like. The few free folk she had spotted at Castle Black looked more or less like everyone else, indistinguishable balls of fur wading through the snowdrifts. She had to trust Lord Snow to not produce anything horrible. To reject this man would insult both him and Jon, and ruin whatever master plan Lord Snow was hatching. She didn’t think for a moment that Jon wasn’t getting anything out of this alliance.

She heard footsteps on the stairs and tried to compose herself. Anything would be better than Uncle Cregan. Jon entered, stamping snow from his boots, followed by a tall man who had to be the Magnar. Relief almost made her swoon. Save for his impressive bronze armor, the wildling could as well have been some southron lord her father had arranged her to wed. He was young, almost a boy, but she could see from his stance that this man was a warrior, and a fearsome one. _Proud, too. Jon said they believe themselves the last of the First Men._ She wondered briefly if Jon had made her sound so frightening that armor was called for. At least the wildling seemed to be a little in awe of her.

“This is Lady Alys Karstark. Lady Alys, I would like you to meet the Magnar of Thenn.” The young man bowed rather stiffly, eyeing her with some suspicion. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who had dreaded what Lord Snow would conjure up. Alys put forward her most charming smile and curtseyed like she were at King’s Landing instead of this castle at the edge of the world. “You are no beauty, but your smile is your best feature. Remember to use it as often as you can” septa Mirian always said. She had had a septa to tutor her, like any respectable young lady, though her lord father had made it very clear that septa Mirian was to keep her religion to herself. Maybe the old septa had been right, as the wildling seemed quite at loss for words.

Jon had evidently told him the outlines of his plan, but the man asked her for some details on the garrison and fortifications at Karhold. He appeared to understand Common Tongue, though speaking it clearly took some effort. She couldn’t afterwards remember a word she’d said, since all her thoughts had concentrated on one point. Could she really trust her fortunes with this stranger? Her eyes didn’t leave him for a moment, as she tried to gauge what sort of a man this Magnar was. _He isn’t as handsome as Daryn, but then I’m no Queen Cersei either._ He had a narrow face, like many northmen, with high cheekbones and a straight, sharp nose that was slightly too large for that youthful face. He had none of Daryn’s easygoing charm, but in a colder, sterner way he was almost comely. Even the receding hairline made him only appear less boyish. She remembered that wildlings used to capture young women on their raids and carry them away to be their wives. _He looks strong enough to carry me off, at least._ The thought held a certain fascination.

Faced with this intense scrutiny, the Magnar grew visibly uncomfortable. He shifted from foot to foot, barely meeting her eyes when he spoke to her. _He is shy. Fearless on the battlefield, no doubt, but faced with a lady he doesn’t know what to say._ Still, his grey eyes lingered on her, measuring every detail of her appearance. She had washed with freezing-cold water, even poured it over her head and dried her hair by the fire, but suddenly she felt awfully shabby in her stained and tattered dress. _I hope he likes what he sees… because I think I have just bought what Lord Snow is selling me._ She hadn’t forgotten those two hundred soldiers and the promise of ousting her traitorous uncles, but it was a more personal kind of consideration that decided the matter. _If I have to pay my way home with my maidenhood, then I’d rather like him being the one to take it._

“Shall I leave you two alone for a moment? If you need more time to think this through, I understand, but I must remind you that Cregan’s absence may arouse suspicion in his men and cause them to come looking for you. If you want to surprise them in Karhold, time is of essence. ” Alys nodded, and Jon bowed himself out and closed the door.

She was shaking inside with barely suppressed fear, but managed a smile she hoped to be charming. “Will you help me?”

The Magnar‘s voice did not quaver when he replied, but she could see the same fear in his eyes, the sensation of jumping from a cliff without knowing what would lay beneath. “I have two hundred men, but four hundred women, children, wounded… Will there be place for them?“

_He’d marry me if I were a hog, and he’s the better man for it._ “There is more than enough land for anyone willing to farm it. My father took most of the peasants south with him, and they never came back. Smiths, shepherds… everyone will be needed. The winter will be tough, but I assume no tougher than it would be where you come from.”

“You promise?”

“I promise it, on my honor. If you promise to listen to me when you rule. It is my home, I know the land, the people, the neighbours… You may capture the castle, but you cannot hold it without me. Let me help you.” This wasn’t the way to speak to a suitor, but she was desperate. _Please, please don’t be like uncle Cregan. Don’t treat me like some brood mare, you can’t, you have to see that you need me._ The man looked taken aback by this sudden outburst, but he was sharp enough to understand the truth in her words.

“On my honor I promise. “ Solemnly he held out a hand, and she took it.


	2. Chapter 2

They have climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, and now the door is closed behind them. Alys was being flippant when she assured Jon that she wasn’t scared. Her mouth has gone dry and she can’t think of one thing that would be appropriate to say.

“My lady…” The Magnar falters, searching for words.

”You can call me Alys if you like. Should… should I call you the Magnar?”

“In here, Sigorn. With others, call me Magnar. You called Maginn.”

“Maginn? Ah, you mean it is my title, in the Old Tongue. Well, that sounds lovely, after all there are very many Lady this-and-that but I suppose there isn’t another Maginn?”

He smiles. “No. My mother, but she is dead. Long time.”

“Mine too.” Somehow this makes them relax a little. The fire is blazing, and the room is almost stuffy. He shrugs off his mountain of furs, and reaches out to unclasp the bride’s cloak she is still wearing. Alys makes no move, and he opens the cloak and lifts it off her shoulders. His hand brushes her shoulder, making the hairs in her arms prickle.

She has not yet seen him without full armor.“Do you wear this to bed, too?” She touches the bronze scales and looks up to him, smiling playfully.

“No.” He unbuckles the swordbelt and begins to unfasten the scale armor. Alys reaches out to help him, and when she is busy with the buckles, he lays a tentative hand on her waist. She flushes when he pulls her closer. This is it, then. An almost unbearable excitement flashes through her when his lips brush her cheek. She gathers her courage and turns her head, and their lips meet.

Alys remembers how she kissed Daryn the last time they saw each other. She was just a child then, wanting to do something exciting and naughty. Daryn thought it was stupid, but he went along to humor her, and the kiss he gave her was rather clumsy and slobbery. Even so, she’s never kissed anyone else.

But this kiss is different. For all his shyness, Sigorn seems to know what he is doing. He starts softly, trying to gauge if she likes it. Alys wonders briefly how strange it is that in this one respect, all their differences don’t seem to matter. A kiss is the same on the Frostfangs and in the Seven Kingdoms. They do knock their teeth together a few times, and come close to losing their balance as she has to stand on her toes and he has to bend down a little, but still she wishes this kiss would go on forever.

“Oh, please do it again”, she whispers when he releases her, and he is happy to oblige, locking her into an embrace that leaves her almost breathless. They promised to warm each other, and now she feels very warm indeed. Soon his lips move to her throat, and the touch makes her shiver with anticipation. She presses closer to him, arching her neck to expose it to his kisses. His hand begins to make its way under her bodice, pulling the gown off her shoulders rather roughly. She wouldn’t mind if he succeeded, except that she must needs keep the dress in one piece.

“Please, don’t tear it. It isn’t mine, the queen was kind enough to lend me one of her own.  Open the laces, here.” She turns around, and Sigorn yanks on the laces rather impatiently. She fears he might use his sword to cut the gown off, if the laces don’t give way soon enough.  

But he perseveres, and finally the lacing is open and the gown falls from her shoulders. The look of dismay on his face puzzles Alys, until she realizes that she is still clothed in her underskirt and smallclothes. The assortment of shrunken and coarse grey wool is hardly a sight to arouse a man’s burning desire.

“What did you expect? We were married outside. In a snowstorm. The red god’s flames are not _that_ warm.” She can’t help giggling at the man’s astonishment. The Magnar looks momentarily offended, but soon he joins in the laughter. Their nervousness makes them laugh almost uncontrollably, and she has to wipe her eyes when her mirth finally subsides.

The sense of thrilling anticipation is gone, and suddenly Alys feels rigid with apprehension. The kissing was pleasant enough, but it was merely a prelude, and she isn’t sure that she will like whatever is to follow. But there isn’t anything she can do now. She gave him a promise, and now he has the right to do whatever he wants with her. Alys fiddles with the fastenings of her underskirt and decides it is better to try to get this over with. She lets the skirt drop to the floor, and he takes the cue and pulls his tunic over his head. They undress in awkward silence, avoiding each other’s gaze.

Alys darts under the covers as quickly as posible, but she cannot resist stealing a glance at her husband. Underneath all the bulk of his armor and furs, Sigorn is more slender than she expected. More like a lithe shadowcat than a giant hulking bear, she thinks, pleased. She holds the cover to her chest, very conscious that where he is a fine specimen of manhood, her womanly charms are somewhat lacking, especially as far as bosom is considered.

Sigorn doesn’t seem to mind. As soon as he climbs in beside her, his hand sneaks under the cover and cups her breast. She gasps, but the feeling is not altogether unpleasant. Gingerly she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into a kiss, but while a moment ago he was almost gentle, this time his mouth on hers is hard and demanding. His hands seem to be everywhere, and although his touch arouses sensations she’s never felt before, she wishes he would slow down for a moment and let her get used to this sudden intimacy.

But Sigorn can’t wait any longer, or perhaps he fears he will be unmanned by nervousness. Suddenly he is on top of her, pushing into her with all his strength, and she feels a sharp tearing pain. She cries out, when his assault hurts more than she anticipated, and bites her lip. She was warned long ago that losing her maidenhood might be painful, so what did she expect?

“It hurts?” Sigorn stops moving.

“A little” Alys mumbles, and chides herself for this weakness. To her surprise, Sigorn pulls out of her and the pain eases.

“Sorry” he whispers, embarrassed, and lays down beside her. The sharp pain is gone, but Alys feels sore and torn. For a moment she wishes all this, the room, the man, everything would just disappear, and she could be safe and alone in her chamber back home. But this is the only way home.  He reaches out and hesitantly strokes her hair, and this unexpected gentleness almost makes her cry.

They lay quiet, side by side, but she can feel the tension in his body. He wants her still, but is too embarrassed to show it.  

“Just… go on. Finish it.” she whispers. She is not sure whether this counts as consummation, and she will take no chances. Sigorn hesitates for a moment and then rolls on his back.

“Try… you sit on me.” She understands, and gingerly climbs over his body. Now she is extremely embarrassed, but determined to see this through. She is grateful that the bedchamber is almost dark. She can’t look at him, can’t think of him seeing her naked. As slowly as possible she eases herself down and his man’s staff enters her, but this time it hurts less.

“Better?” “Yes” she whispers, her eyes squeezed shut. Sigorn wraps her braid around his hand and tugs it gently, pulling her down into a kiss.

“Oh. Oh.” How can it feel so good? She hardly knows the man, and yet one kiss is all it takes to melt her again. She is struck by an irresistible urge to touch him, and she slides her hand along his chest, feeling the hard muscles under that smooth skin. He must regret taking her maidenhood so hastily, as he barely moves, letting her get accustomed to the sensation of him inside her. When his mouth travels to her breasts, his tongue circling her nipple, she forgets the pain and embarrassment and grinds herself against him, driving his staff deeper. Now he can’t stay still any more. Afterwards Alys is slightly abashed by her eagerness, but right this moment, there seems to be nothing in the world but his mouth, his hands, his warm skin close to her own…

She cries out when he takes hold of her hips and thrusts harder and harder, but this time the cry isn’t one of pain. She feels pleasure building up inside her, like water behind a dam, and the breaking of that dam is so close, so close…  Maybe if he’d touch her between her thighs, like she sometimes did when she was alone, though it always felt so embarrassing afterwards... She almost takes hold of his hand to guide it, but Sigorn is already too close to the dam breaking of his own. He groans, thrusting one last time, and lays still. Apparently now they are done with this, and she is a bit disappointed. She slides over to his side, and Sigorn embraces her rather awkwardly.  All this excitement has left her exhausted, and she snuggles closer to him, enjoying the warmth of his body. He kisses her cheek, and she feels a tiny glimmer of happiness. She hasn’t been so safe and protected since her father and brothers went south.


	3. Chapter 3

The march to Karhold is long and slow, even though the women and children are left behind. Lord Snow gave his word that the Watch would look after them until word came that the castle was captured. Their supply carts are pulled by enormously hairy and ill-tempered oxen that are irritatingly slow to boot. The Thenns have few horses, shaggy little half-wild creatures. She is given one, the rest are ridden by her husband and his closest men.

She is surprised by the Thenn warriors. She imagined wildlings would be a ragtag bunch of bandits, but these men are as orderly and disciplined as her father’s soldiers. And while even the best and most loyal men served her father essentially for their pay, these men follow Sigorn because they are his people. But for a few close men who serve as his captains and are more like the bannermen of a liege lord, all warriors show unquestioned deference and utmost obedience to their Magnar. This deference extends to her, even though she has been their Maginn for mere days. The few men who must speak to her seem awed, almost fearful, approaching her as if she were the queen.

Even Emund seems not to bridle at being under the command of his brother, though this may have to do with him appearing to be rather an easy-going fellow. He knows some Common Tongue, unlike most of the Thenns, and she falls in with him, asking as much as she dares about this strange people. Yes, this is the first time for centuries any Thenn has come this side of the Wall. He laughs at the idea of them raiding northmen. Their little valley was far too distant. They are fierce fighters, because they had to be, living surrounded by giants and cannibals. They did steal women, he admits, rather shamefaced, but only from other wildling tribes. It’s the custom, he explains, for a wildling woman it is a great honor to be carried away by such fearsome warriors. Their own mother was captured in a raid, because Styr, their father the old Magnar, was taken by her beauty. She was held in the greatest respect and lived comfortably, when she had been a mere shepherd’s daughter, so where was the harm in carrying her away?

Sigorn rides ahead of them, along with the chieftains. When he glances back to see Alys deep in conversation with his brother, his look turns dark. It isn’t long before he beckons Alys over, and begins questioning her about everything from the War of the Five Kings to Karhold and its neighbors. _Is he afraid Emund will steal me from him? He shouldn’t be. I need these soldiers, and they follow him to the death if necessary. No-one would follow Emund down a forest path on a sunny afternoon._ She fields the sharp questions as well as she can, silently cursing herself for not paying more attention when her uncles spoke of their schemes with the Boltons.

They sleep in crude tents, huddled under a pile of furs. Thankfully she and her husband have a tent of their own, as Sigorn can’t keep his hands off her, even though his men sleep barely a few feet away. “Ssh! Everyone can hear us!” She tries to hush him on the first night, but he just laughs and nuzzles her neck, biting it gently so that she gasps. He sneaks his hand under her shirt, and her protestations grow more feeble when it reaches her breasts. She decides to let him have his way and tries to keep quiet, but when his hand makes its way between her thighs, she forgets all decorum.

“Just… there, oh please, oh gods, please don’t stop now” she whispers and grabs his wrist to guide him. Sigorn doesn’t stop, and when he turns her on her side and slides inside her, she is overwhelmed by a surge of pleasure more intense than anything she’s ever felt. When she’s gone weak from the release, he pulls her up on her knees and grabs her hips, thrusting into her hard and relentless. It’s almost painful, but in a way that makes another wave of ecstasy sweep over her. Afterwards they lay dazed and out of breath, so flushed that the biting cold barely registers. “It felt good” Alys whispers shyly. Much better than she would have imagined, in truth. Sigorn doesn’t say anything, but he smiles, evidently pleased. She wonders whether it would have felt just as good with Daryn.

One night she dozes fitfully and finally wakes with an urge to relieve herself. Sigorn is asleep, snoring softly, and she slips out from beneath the furs and dons her cloak without waking him. She walks past the tents, trying to find a secluded spot, and decides to go behind the big sleighs that stand further off, the oxen having been released from their yokes. When she stands back up, she hears an odd noise. A whispering female voice isn’t in and of itself remarkable, but the words sound nothing like the Old Tongue. She is almost sure it is Common Tongue that she hears.

The sound appears to come from a large covered sleigh nearby. Didn’t the whisperer hear her coming? But when she listens more carefully, she understands why not. There are other noises too, the unmistakable sound of two people being engaged in the “most sacred act of matrimony” as septa Mirian always put it. She is about to creep away and leave the couple to enjoy each other, but it strikes her that something fishy must be going on. Who can the whisperer be? The Thenns have only a few spearwives, most of them under the command of one female chieftain who always reminds Alys of Maege Mormont. Why does everyone remind her of somebody who’s probably dead? But neither this almost-Maege nor her warrior-women have ever spoken to her. She assumed they don’t know enough Common Tongue.  And why would two Thenns speak to each other in a language they can barely understand?

There’s a small gap between the hides that cover the sleigh, and when she peeks through it, she can see two figures entwined. She catches a glimpse of the man’s face in the pale moonlight. _Stupid Emund. Don’t the Thenns have women enough?_ She can’t make out the woman’s features, but it’s not difficult to guess Emund has made off with one of the queen’s serving girls. He was all over them in their wedding feast.

She has seen enough, and makes her way back to the tent as quick as possible. Should she wake Sigorn and tell him? But then she must explain how she came across them.  Alys wonders why no-one has come looking for the girl. A rider would have caught up with them days ago. There aren’t so many girls at Castle Black that one’s disappearance would go unnoticed. Maybe she told the Queen she was leaving? But then, why the secrecy? Would Sigorn have ordered her to stay with the Thenn women? That must be it. Besides, Selyse probably isn’t all that interested in some common girl’s whereabouts.

Commotion wakes her in the morning. Sigorn is gone, and she hears angry voices outside. She dresses quickly and steps out, hurrying across the field to where the free folk have congregated around a group of riders. _Oh gods damn it._  She would recognize that lecherous face a mile away. Alys sees her husband standing there, being condescended to by Ser Willem Germont, who hasn’t even gotten off his horse. _Sigorn will need me to handle this one._ She pushes through the wildlings, elbowing aside those who are too slow to make way for their Maginn.

“Ser Willem. To what do we owe the honour of seeing you?” The look of pure hatred on his face is unmistakable, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Sigorn put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Ser Willem must remember the time she kicked him in the shin, after he cornered her on the stairs and tried to grope her. When she was already promised to Sigorn, no less. When she informed Ser Willem of this fact, he called her a number of insalubrious names.

“Lady Alys, it saddens me to see a high-born lady like you with this band of thieving, raping savages. Was it with your assistance that they abducted the daughter of Lord Greenstone?” “You respect my wife” Sigorn growls, stepping closer to Germont’s horse.

“What are you talking about?” She tries to play time. “Myriel Greenstone disappeared the same day you and these brutes left. Her maid said she was ill and would not see anyone, but I had my suspicions and forced my way in. The maid claims her mistress asked her to lie, but more likely one of your men bribed her and stole away with lady Myriel.” _He doesn’t even believe that himself._ “There’s nowhere else she could have gone. No horses are missing and no tracks can be seen in the snow. She must be here.”

“She is not. Only lady here, my wife. You leave now, you can go in peace.” Sigorn has clearly had enough of this uppity knight.

“Don’t try to lie to me, you filthy wildling.” Now swords are drawn, not only Sigorn’s but all his men. _Is Ser Willem a complete idiot? Bronze or not, those swords are still sharp and he’s outnumbered twenty to one._  But she can’t risk bloodshed. Stannis must back her claim to Karhold, and killing one of his knights won’t endear her to the king.

“My lord Magnar, please stay your hand. She is here. And your brother has something to answer for. Emund, I think it’s best that you fetch Lady Myriel, and we’ll hear her tale. I saw you two last night.” Emund tries to play innocent, but the look on her face is apparently enough to cause second thoughts.

“ _Go. Before someone loses their head.”_ Soon he appears with Lady Myriel in tow, a round-faced, buxom girl barely Alys’s age. “My lady” Ser Willem bows from his horse “I’m here to free you from this man who carried you away against your will.”

“No! I ran away all by myself. I’m never going back, never! You tried to rape me and when I told Queen Selyse, she said it was my fault and she’d send me back home if I ever caused trouble again! You’ll protect me.” She turns to Emund, who looks like he didn’t quite sign up for this protection he’s now being asked for.

“You will come back when I ask you to. I promised the Queen to bring you back, though I’m sure she won’t have much to do with you now. She will send you back home and that’ll serve you right, you ungrateful brat!” “Be reasonable, Ser Willem. What use is it to bring her back? The damage is already done, and do you think her father will welcome the news that her daughter is sent away from the court and perhaps with child to boot? Lady Myriel turns bright red, and Alys feels sorry for the girl.

“How dare you…” “I saw them last night, in shall we say compromising circumstances. I’m sure you, my lord,” Alys addresses Emund, ”will do what is honorable and wed this young lady.” Briefly, Emund has the eyes of a deer surrounded by huntsmen. He opens his mouth as if to protest, but one look from the Magnar suffices to quiet him. The cold fury on Sigorn’s face reminds her of how Jon spoke of Styr, his father.

“I will.” “How can they be wed? There’s no-one to marry them.” “We have two hundred witnesses, and my lord husband is the leader of his people. If he says they’re married, it’s good enough for his people and should be good enough for you and Queen Selyse.” Alys is improvising wildly. She has no idea how the Thenns actually marry each other, but hopes that those who understand her will play along.

“We can send for Lady Melisandre when Karhold is ours, if need be.  Lady Myriel, will you marry this man?”

“I will” the girl proclaims, so joyful and bright-eyed it makes Alys’s heart ache. A look of deepest regret crosses Emund’s face, but he mans up and takes Lady Myriel’s hand. Sigorn glowers, not happy that his wife has taken the matters into her own hands. _What else can I do? If I’d left Sigorn and Ser Willem to sort this out, we’d have twenty dead men instead of one married couple._

“Ser Willem, I humbly suggest that you return to the queen and tell her that Lady Myriel is safe and sound. I and my lord husband will guarantee her safety, and she shall serve me as my lady-in-waiting.” Ser Willem has finally arrived to the conclusion that he is overpowered, and offers no further argument. His departure is hastened by Emund, who has recovered from the shock of finding himself suddenly married, and assumed a suitably menacing countenance to dampen Ser Willem’s ardor to carry off his wife.

When the search party has ridden away, Alys and the Thenns witness the spectacle of the Magnar’s anger. He shouts at Emund in front of everyone, and even though Alys doesn’t understand a word of the Old Tongue, she understands that this is by no means the first occasion where he has felt the need to reprimand his irresponsible and thoughtless brother. She is itching to give Emund a piece of her mind too, but she must see to Lady Myriel, who stands alone and bewildered, watching her new husband engage in a shouting match with his brother.

“Come and break fast with me, Lady Myriel. It’s better to leave the men for a moment.” Lady Myriel follows her meekly. The fury that made her confront Ser Willem seems to have left her. Alys can’t help herself: “Didn’t you realize people would come after you? I don’t understand what Emund was thinking when he let you come with him.”

“I told Emund I was just a serving girl, and I could find work to do at Karhold. Ser Willem wouldn’t leave me alone, I had to do something.”

“So to escape one lecherous man, you let another have his way with you?”

“I… I just couldn’t help myself. He’s so handsome… and he wasn’t at all like Ser Willem, he didn’t try to force me to do anything. And that was why I ran away too, because I wanted to be with Emund. I’m in love with him. I thought you would understand! Didn’t you run away too?”

“I ran away from a man who would kill me and steal my inheritance. Love had nothing to do with it.“

“But don’t you love your husband?” “Love? It is hardly more than a fortnight since we first met. Both of us had a want for something the other could provide. I do not expect to love him any more than I expected to love the husband my father had chosen for me.” Alys feels suddenly a hundred years old, faced with this naïve and hopeful girl.

It turns out Sigorn’s anger is not limited to his brother. He is curt with her all day, leaving her to the company of Lady Myriel.

“Why you not tell me?” he demands, when they are lying down to sleep.

“Tell what? About Emund? It was the middle of the night. I didn’t want to wake you just because I saw two people making love.”

“You made me look like a fool. Women must keep quiet, men decide what to do.”

“Ah, you are mad that I stopped you and Ser Willem from coming to blows over a stupid girl? Whom your brother took along in the first place? I can’t blame Emund, though, she lied to him.”

“He insulted me. And you. Our people. To insult the Magnar, man must pay with blood.”

“Don’t be foolish. Ser Willem is no doubt a coward who would make love to a sow if you put it in a dress, but he is still a knight of King Stannis. If you’d killed him, sooner or later the king would make you pay for it. He’s our king now, remember? Our right to Karhold comes from him.” Sigorn plainly resents being reminded of his position.

“This what I think of Stannis.” He spits. “Not real king, like the red god, all pretend.”

“I agree with you on the red god, but if you don’t like King Stannis, how you’d like King Tommen instead? You aren’t up north any more, in your own little kingdom. Here you have to kneel, if not to one king, then another.” She is cross, tired with the foolish pride of men. There was much talk of honor and revenge when her father and brothers rode south to die.

She didn’t mean to sound harsh, but her words evidently hit too close to the mark. Sullenly, Sigorn wraps himself up in the furs and turns away from her. She reaches out to him, but he shrugs her hand off. So be it, Alys thinks, still annoyed herself. She turns her back to him, even though it’s not half as warm sleeping alone, and tries to fall asleep. But in the morning, Sigorn rises and clothes himself without greeting her with as much as a word. He is civil to her when other people are present, but whenever she tries to approach him alone, she can see the anger in his eyes and thinks better of it. She hopes that her body might cool his fury the way her words can’t, but when she tries get close to him under the sleeping-skins, he turns away. “Have it your way, then” she mutters, and the next evening takes care not to show him the tiniest bit of affection.


	4. Chapter 4

The march drags on and on. She rides alone now, her husband preferring to ride with his chieftains. Lady Myriel isn’t very interesting company, as she spends her time mooning over Emund. Alys suspects that Emund was chiefly enticed by her considerable bosom, but now he has to pay for his bit of good old-fashioned bride-stealing by playing the knight gallant come to her rescue. The snowstorm has finally abated, followed by a warm spell that turns the snow into slippery slush. Water drips from the trees and the wetness in the air permeates everything. Alys sits miserably slumped on her horse. She is cold to the bone and her fingers are so numb in the wet gloves that she can hardly hold on to the reins.

They arrive at a steep hill that she recognizes. From here, it would be only half a day’s ride home, but with the speed of the marching men it will take two more days. The oxen have a hard time pulling the sleighs up, but the way down is almost as difficult. Their hooves slip and slide on the wet snow, and the animals are nervous. Alys rides ahead, letting her horse pick its way slowly. Suddenly there is a loud crash and shouting. She reins the horse in and turns around to see one of the sleighs turned on its side under the hill. The ox has been pulled to the ground and trashes in the yoke as men try to right the sleigh. The huge, heavy animal strains to break free, and in a moment the yoke gives way and the ox regains its feet, bolting straight towards her and trampling a man in the process. She realizes too late what is happening, when her horse takes fright and rears. Her hands are too numb to hold on, and she is thrown from the saddle. She hits the ground and keeps falling into darkness.

“Alys!” There is a confusion of voices, shouting words Alys doesn’t understand. Someone is shaking her and calling her name, and slowly she comes to. She is prone on the ground and Sigorn kneels beside her, a terrified look in his eyes.

“You hurt?” “Oh… did I fall? My head… I think I hit it.” An ache is beginning to radiate from her left hand. She tries to lift it and a searing pain brings tears to her eyes.

“There’s something wrong with my hand.” Sigorn shouts, and a wizened short man appears. The man feels her wrist with expert fingers and mumbles something in the Old Tongue.

“A broken bone” Sigorn translates. “He will… what is it…”

“Splint it? All right, but could someone help me up first, please?”  The wet snow has soaked through her clothes and the chill makes her shiver. Sigorn lifts her in his arms and carries her to one of the sleighs where the medicine-man is busy rummaging through his baggage. He produces a splint and some cloth he uses to bandage her hand, and pours a thick brown liquid from a crude jar into a cup he proffers to her. Alys bites her lip to keep from sobbing. Her head aches, and her hand hurts like it’s on fire.

“He says drink this, will take away the pain.” But when she tries to take the cup, her hand is shaking so violently that she cannot hold it. The pain makes her dizzy and weak, and suddenly she can’t keep herself up any more. She slumps forward, but Sigorn grabs her before she slides to the ground. He wraps his arm around her and makes her lean on him. He gestures to the medicine-man and together they help Alys to drink the potion. She lays her head against his chest, exhausted from the pain, and to her surprise Sigorn strokes her hair gently.

“It’s all right… rest. Soon no pain.” “I can’t ride now” she whispers. She couldn’t probably even walk.  “You ride with me.”

Sigorn lifts her up on his horse and sits on the saddle behind her, holding the reins with one hand and her with the other. The medicine makes her head spin, and she has to concentrate on staying upright, but somehow they manage to ride until nightfall. The potion helps only a little, and by the time they set up camp, Alys is completely worn out. Sigorn has to help her undress and lie down under the sleeping-skins.

“Thank you.” She manages to smile.

“Is nothing. Your head, does it hurt?”

“Not any more. I think it’s all right.”

“Sure? I knew a man, fell off his horse, first nothing. Then next night, he dies, no warning.”

“Well, I think I won’t die. “

“Don’t. Please.” He is obviously concerned, but she sees something else in his eyes, like sorrow. In a moment of sudden clarity, she blurts out: “There was someone who died, wasn’t there? Did you have a wife before me?”

“Not wife. But Ferinn, she was my… how do you say? “

“Your sweetheart, your lover, I understand.”

“My father didn’t like it, said she must marry other man, but then she died on way to the Wall.” Hesitantly she touches his shoulder. ”I’m sorry. “ She can hear the pain of loss in his voice, even though Sigorn is trying his best to appear as steely and unmoved as always.

“But enough. You had someone?” “Yes. I was betrothed to Daryn Hornwood, but he went south and died in battle. I was sad when I heard he’d been killed, but I didn’t love him and didn’t expect to. My father had arranged the match to his own advantage, and my feelings were of no importance.” She is suddenly almost envious of her husband and his love for this dead girl. “But I still wish he hadn’t died, he and my brothers and my father and almost everyone I knew.”  

“My father died too.” “I know, Lord Snow told me.” Alys is quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry for what I said the other day. It wasn’t very kind of me. It must’ve been hard for you and your people, coming here and leaving everything behind.”

“Is all right. I was wrong to be angry. Was not your fault, it all.” Alys takes great comfort in this gruff admission. She doesn’t expect sweet words of love from this stranger, but the angry silence between them had felt almost unbearably bleak.

Two days later, they glimpse the castle silhouetted against the sullen winter sky. It doesn’t take long for the riders to reach the castle, but the troops lag behind, struggling to make their way through the snow. Alys hopes they might reason with the defenders and convince them to surrender, but it seems her luck is not in today.

“Open the gates! I am Lady Alys and I’ve come to take back what is rightfully mine. Cregan Karstark is prisoner of the Night’s Watch and Arnolf will soon meet a traitor’s end at the hands of King Stannis! I know how few men you have. You have no hope of holding the castle! Surrender now, and we’ll save your lives!”

A surly man eyes the intruders atop the rampart. She recognizes the captain of the castle guard. “What army is that? Those are the cheapest-looking sellswords I have ever seen. You can go back wherever you came from, you lying whore.”

Alys turns to her husband. “That old witch, she must have put him up to it. The wife of my uncle, I mean.”

“You are not the lord of this castle. I want to parley with Lady Rowena” she shouts, but Lady Rowena refuses to see her, though she is sure she can hear her shrill voice from the castle. “I take that as no, then. If there is anyone with more sense than him, I’ll give you time until tomorrow to surrender.”

They make camp outside the castle and Sigorn sets his men to fashion tall ladders and battering-rams from trees that are quickly felled, all done as conspicuously as possible so as to frighten the defenders. The weather has turned cold again. It begins to snow, and towards the evening a steady fall of large flakes shrouds everything. The castle is nearly obscured by the falling snow as they turn in for the night.

Alys sleeps fitfully, dreading tomorrow. When she has finally fallen into a deeper slumber, she is suddenly startled awake by someone shaking her by the shoulder. “Maginn!” She sits bolt upright and stares at the intruder, who turns out to be one of Sigorn’s champions, a fresh-faced blonde youth.

“What is it?” The boy apparently can’t speak Common Tongue, as he only gestures towards a white-cloaked figure behind him. Sigorn, too, is woken by the commotion and as he springs up, he instinctively reaches for his sword. Before Alys has even taken in the situation, the sword is already pointed at the white figure.

The Magnar shouts something, his commanding presence only slightly marred by the fact that he hasn’t got his breeches on. As the figure pulls off the cloak, Alys is as quick to jump on her feet. “

Septa Mirian! Sigorn, put down that sword now!” In a flash she has wrapped her arms around the old woman.

“How did you get here? Oh, I missed you so terribly! She is my old tutor” she explains to Sigorn, who by now has realized that his shirt barely covers what should be covered, and quickly wrapped himself in a cloak.

“This is my husband, the Magnar of Thenn. He and his people come from up north, from beyond the Wall.”

“I heard the men in the castle talking. I couldn’t believe it, until I came here. Good thing I still remember some of the Old Tongue I learnt as a girl. All septas and septons must speak it.” The old septa curtseys to Sigorn and says something Alys doesn’t understand. The Magnar answers, bowing deep before the old woman.

“You must wonder why I’m here. We don’t have much time. I came out of the old western gate and left it open. It’s a small gate, hardly more than a door, and seldom used since there’s no longer a drawbridge. If you act immediately, your men can sneak in and take over the castle. The guards at the gate should be fast asleep. I sent a girl to bring them some ale and told her the serjeant wanted the men to keep warm. I spiked the drink with a sleeping potion and when they fell asleep, I made my way out. The air is so thick with snow that the guards on the walls couldn’t see me, but I saw your campfires and walked towards them. The moat is frozen solid. You can’t bring your whole army in unnoticed, but a handful of men can cause enough havoc that the rest have time to come after them. Most of the soldiers will be asleep now, and there are only twenty-five men anyway. I think some of them won’t put up much of a fight. I heard them argue about surrendering.”

Sigorn has already sprung to action. He shouts at the champion, and the young man hastens away. Soon there is commotion outside, and men come running from all directions to their tent, hastily dressing and arming themselves. With her broken hand Alys can’t help her husband to put on his armor, but she hands him his sword. “May the gods be with you, my lord.” Sigorn hardly notices her, busy with giving orders, but when he steps out of the tent, he pauses to give Alys one last look that makes her heart lurch. It’s the look of a man who wants to remember a face he might see for the last time.   _Gods, please bring him back to my arms._

Sigorn leads the first group of men who attempt to sneak to the castle. The rest of the troops will begin their attack at the sound of a warhorn, two signals meaning that the gate is secured, one that the first attackers have been overpowered and they must use the ladders and battering-rams. Alys, Septa Mirian and Lady Myriel huddle in the Magnar’s tent, waiting and dreading the outcome of the battle. Alys sets Lady Myriel to warm them some wine, so that she has a chance to speak to the old septa alone.

“Why did you come? You could have gotten yourself killed.” “I am old. When I die, I shall face the Stranger without sorrow. I regret that I couldn’t help you when your uncles stole your birthright, but if I’d died now, I’d died trying to come to your aid.  May the Seven have mercy on my soul, but your uncles and their men are traitors and betraying them is no crime.“ “We will be eternally in your debt. I only hope your courage was not in vain.”

“But now, my dear child, I can’t wait to hear what brings you here, and married to a wildling, of all things.” Alys tells of Lord Snow’s proposal and their journey to Karhold, and as the old septa listens to her, her piercing eyes seem to look right into her soul. Alys feels a bit like she used to feel when she was a little girl and the septa had caught her doing something naughty.

“Well, I am glad that you have a chance to take back what is rightfully yours. But you are a terribly brave girl, to marry one of the free folk. Does he treat you like a lady should be treated?”

“Yes, have no fear. He has been very kind to me.” Alys surprises herself by blushing, and Septa Mirian gives her a curious look. “I admit he’s young, and from what I saw of him, not a bad-looking man. Though I could have done with seeing a little less of him.” This makes them both giggle. “But you barely know each other, and he’s lived his whole life in a world different from ours. Aren’t you afraid that you will not understand each other? There is much to be said for marriages where the parties have had time to develop fellow-feeling.”

“I don’t think I will be much worse off with him than I would’ve been with Daryn. I knew that Daryn didn’t think much of me. He would have married me, because that was what our fathers wanted, but not gladly. He was quite full of himself and his good looks, and I wasn’t pretty enough for him.”

“And your husband, then, he was glad to marry you?” “I.. I think so.” Obviously, Sigorn was enticed by the offer of a castle and lands for his displaced people, but she hopes she doesn’t flatter herself unduly, thinking he is not entirely indifferent to her person. Septa Mirian takes in her blushing countenance, and smiles.

A distant scream jolts them back to the moment. “That was someone dying. They must have gotten in” Septa Mirian says. “Or they were surprised at the gate.” The sounds of battle carrying from the castle are now unmistakable.  Alys is filled with terror. If this plan doesn’t work, then what? Sigorn will probably be killed long before his men can capture the castle. What will she do without him? Suddenly she feels dread at the prospect of losing not only his protection but his company, his arms around her… Just then, a warhorn sounds. Once. She strains her ears to hear another hoot, but in vain. All the fear she has until now managed to keep under control breaks out, and she starts sobbing. Lady Myriel looks up from the cooking-fire, and Alys tries to regain her composure. She will not look a sniveling weakling in front of her. Septa Mirian quietly pats her hand. “Stay strong. “

Outside the tent, men are shouting and running. Alys peeks out to see the warriors amassed under the hill on which Karhold is situated. First groups of men are already climbing up the hill, and there must be arches on the battlements as she sees some of the men fall down. The snow slows their progress, making them easy targets. Inside the castle, the battle rages on, and it gives her some hope. Soon all the troops are climbing the hill, carrying the battering-rams and covering themselves with shields. Alys feels like she can’t watch the battle any more. She sits down, taking a cup of the wine Lady Myriel has warmed, and concentrates on keeping herself from becoming hysterical with worry. Septa Mirian has retreated into a corner to pray, and Lady Myriel stays riveted to the doorway. Time seems to slow down.

Alys can’t afterwards tell how long she sat there, the wine going cold in her cup, but finally she wakes up lying on the floor. Someone has kindly wrapped a cloak around her. The sounds from outside have quieted down, and she is alone. She rises up stiffly and makes her way out. It’s already dawn and the weather has cleared. A pale sun lights the warriors making their way back from the castle. The men look exhausted but happy, except for those who are helped along by their comrades or lay dead in the snow. They must have captured the castle! She looks for Sigorn, but can’t find him anywhere.  More and more warriors stream from the castle, but none of them is her husband.

She begins climbing uphill against the tide of men.“The Magnar? Where is he?” Someone points to the direction of the castle, and she starts to run, but her feet keep sinking to the snow. She struggles to reach the gate and walks slowly inside, trying to catch her breath. In the central courtyard she finally finds her husband. Sigorn sits on a bench while the medicine-man wraps a bandage around his arm, and blood is streaming from a gash in his forehead. She forgets her exhaustion and runs to his side.

“Sigorn!” She remembers too late. “My lord Magnar, are you badly hurt?” He sees her, and in one motion Sigorn is on his feet, sweeping her up in his arms. The medicine-man, who barely reaches his shoulder, is pushed aside with his bandages. Before Alys can react, he gives her a crushing, urgent kiss. She can taste the blood, sweat and the fervor of battle that still keeps him from feeling pain. The kiss isn’t about her, it’s about staking the lust that fighting and killing seem to arouse in men. Alys is relieved that he made it through, but she can’t help pulling away from his embrace.

“My lord, you are bleeding. Let me help you. What happened? Did they catch you coming through the gate?” Sigorn sits down and allows her to wipe the blood from his face. “Yes. “ Alys gathers from his explanation that the Thenns had managed to sneak in, but a guard on the wall had spotted them immediately and his arrows had taken down a couple of warriors. Sigorn and his men had had to fight to keep the gate open, and for a moment it looked like the defenders would manage to close it. But knowing that the main host was approaching the castle, they fought tooth and nail and the guards couldn’t both fight them and repel the oncoming attack. “He killed six men single-handedly” interjects Emund, who has entered the courtyard with Lady Myriel in tow.


	5. Chapter 5

As she walks down the path to the heart tree, holding Sigorn’s arm, Alys reflects that whatever their differences, the faith they at least have in common. Away from the red priestess, the Thenns have cast aside all pretense of embracing the Lord of Light. This could be called oath-breaking, but Alys is the last to care. No southron king could make a Karstark relinquish the old gods of the North. Not that Lord Rickard wouldn’t have let gods get in the way of an advantageous marriage. He’d made it plain to Septa Mirian that the Karstarks intended to keep to the old gods, but he’d let the septa teach Alys the most important tenets and prayers of the Seven so that she could at least pay lip service to her husband’s religion if need be.

But today they stand facing each other under the heart tree whose branches are like lace, covered in a thin layer of fresh snow. Alys wears the green velvet gown that was once meant to be her wedding dress. She found it, half-finished, when she was looking for an underskirt she’d mislaid. For a moment she sat holding the soft apple-green fabric. She remembered her father telling her about the betrothal, Septa Mirian helping her to cut the heavy fabric, Torr and Edd teasing her about Daryn…  At first she wanted to bury the gown to the bottom of her wardrobe and turn away from the memories, but the fabric was so beautiful, it would be a shame to let it go to waste. It was meant to be her wedding gown, after all, and there was some bittersweet comfort in the thought that it would be put to its intended use. She had to let the waist out a little, but otherwise the gown fit her beautifully. Besides, seeing her in her finery might remind the Thenns who they really had to thank for this castle. _I wish they could see me now. Father, I won’t promise revenge for you and my brothers, but I promise I’ll do my best to help King Stannis unite the North. We have worse enemies than Lannisters coming._

The words of Old Tongue she has memorized come slow and haltingly as she promises to honor and obey her husband. _Now we are really married, without flames and red sorceresses. I can never go back on this promise I gave under the eyes of the gods._ She is almost shaking as she looks up to his eyes, and Sigorn holds her hands a little tighter. His voice in the soft wintry silence is solemn and clear as he, rather touchingly, promises her his fidelity and his protection, half of all his cattle and property and all the locks and keys of his domicile. Alys had Septa Mirian translate the wows for her, and was greatly heartened by the mention of half his property. She hasn’t asked Sigorn if this is indeed a genuine custom and not merely a lofty sentiment.

When they have exchanged their wows, Sigorn surprises her by kissing her full on the lips, to the cheering of the assembled Thenns. The momentousness of the occasion is slightly marred by them having to give way to Emund and Lady Myriel who in turn say their wows. Alys wonders what the witnesses make of them. Lady Myriel worships Emund, that is clear from the way she looks at him, but Emund’s feelings are, she suspects, rather more moderate. Alys thinks she can detect a little additional roundness around Lady Myriel’s waist, though she is naturally so plump that it’s hard to tell. She catches Sigorn looking at Lady Myriel too, but if he notices the same, he doesn’t say.

The Thenns are too polite to stare outright at their Magnar and Maginn, but Alys sees many glancing furtively in her direction, no doubt trying to make out how things stand between them. She doesn’t quite know it herself. Whenever other people are present, Sigorn treats her with a formal politeness that borders on haughty. She is never quite sure whether it’s his shyness that makes him so distant, or is he supposed to act aloof because he is the Magnar. She errs on the side of caution and assumes the latter, affecting a reserved manner that isn’t quite natural to her. Certainly the Thenns are not a gregarious people. The women and children are still on the way to their new home, and maybe they will bring some liveliness with them, but the warriors are stern and fearsome. Perhaps they, like soldiers everywhere, enjoy a bawdy song and some friendly brawling, but the mere sight of their Maginn is enough to quieten them. She is treated with a respect that borders on reverence, and as most of the Thenns can’t even speak her language, Alys feels like she is surrounded by a circle of silence.

They are only really alone at night, and all this coolness during the day makes it odd to suddenly be intimate come nightfall. She reminds herself that theirs is nothing more than a marriage of convenience, but it doesn’t feel quite right. There are moments of shared laughter and tenderness, and they are like cracks in an ice wall neither of them knows how to scale. She doesn’t dare to get too affectionate towards him for fear that it’ll make him uncomfortable. What if his cold manner is a reflection of his opinion of her? Whenever he surprises her by something like that kiss, she thinks it isn’t, but the fear always returns. She would like to ask him, but any conversation beyond the simplest subjects takes effort, and Sigorn isn’t much of a talker even in his own language. Silence makes their moments together even more awkward. They make love most every night, and it’s the only time she truly feels close to him, but the following morning they are back to the familiar pattern of reserved courteousness.

Though their attitude at times seems rather grim, the Thenns are not a completely joyless people. After the ceremony, they have supper in the great hall. They must conserve food, so there is no feast, but a cask of Dornish wine has been unearthed from the cellars. One of the Thenns plays lute rather passably, and sings in a mellifluous voice that is at odds with his coarse features.

“What does he sing about?” Alys expects it to be a ballad of some hero’s great deeds. Sigorn surprises her by saying it is a love song, and though he can’t quite translate the words, he smiles and tells her that is about a maiden as fair as the spring. His smile has a way of making her feel tingly all over.

“Very pretty. Does he know any more love songs?” The singer gives them a jolly one, about a girl who can’t decide between two suitors, and a sad one where a bride bids farewell to her husband before a fight. Then he apparently runs out of love songs, as Emund says the next one is “The Last of the Giants”. Alys doesn’t understand the words, but the melody is a heart-wrenching lament. Most of the men in the hall join in the song, and even Emund and the Magnar mouth along with obvious emotion. _It could as well be “The Last of the First Men”. Your children may understand the lyrics, but I doubt your grandchildren will. The men and women will live on, but the folk will die, and you know it. What Andals began, the Others will finish. The Others… and I._ The Seven Kingdoms will swallow the Thenns like all wildlings. Her husband probably never imagined he’d have to lead his people into a completely different world. _He has the makings of a great lord, but he will be their last Magnar._ She sees signs of the change already. Warriors to the bone, the Thenns have cast aside the bronze of their forefathers and looted the Karhold armory. That bastard Arnolf stole her father’s Valyrian steel sword that the Young Wolf had sent along with Lord Rickard’s bones, but she found her uncle’s own sword and made the gift of it to her husband.


	6. Chapter 6

“The Magnar? Where is he?” Alys storms out of the maester’s tower into the courtyard, looking for Sigorn. A grumpy warrior points her to the direction of the smithy, and she runs there as fast as her legs allow. Sigorn turns around and is startled by her face, white as a sheet.

“We had a raven from Castle Black. Look at this!” She thrusts the message into his hand, and only after seeing his confused look she remembers that Sigorn doesn’t understand any of it. He can read and even write, but only the ancient runes of the First Men that the Thenns have used for hundreds of years. One day he carved their names in a stone on the battlements, ostensibly to show how her name was written in runes but really, she suspects, to leave some mark of himself in this castle.

The note is written in the shaky letters and clumsy words of a barely literate man. “We beg for your help. There is a mutiny at Castle Black. Bowen Marsh and others tried to kill the Lord Commander, and they maybe did, but the body has disappeared. We don’t know the truth of what happened. Marsh and his men tried to drive out the free folk and killed many. We fought back but we are outnumbered. The king’s knights can’t keep order and the queen fears for her safety. Ramsay Bolton sent a message that he beat King Stannis and threatened to march against Castle Black, but we’ve had no other news of any battle. If the situation is out of control, we have no hope of defending ourselves against Bolton. We ask for the Magnar and his men to come to our aid and help restore order in the Watch. Your women and children are on the way to Karhold, but they may get caught in the fighting and we can’t help them.

Signed

Satin, Mully, Leathers, Horse…”

_They are desperate. Adding the Thenns to that situation won’t likely make it less chaotic, disciplined though they may be. But in their shoes, I, too, would clutch at anything to keep the Boltons at bay._

As Sigorn listens to her, she can see a flicker of grim satisfaction on his face. _I suppose I can’t blame him for feeling his father’s death has been avenged._ It still feels like a stab to the heart to see what he thinks of the Lord Commander. _The last man who could help me when I ran away, and now he might be dead too._ She’s pushed all thoughts of Jon into a locked box in her heart. _I can’t go on if I start thinking of him now._

“You must leave at once. You bent the knee to King Stannis, and if his queen is in danger, you must protect her.” She is wise enough to not mention his debt of gratitude to Lord Snow.

“What do I care of his queen? Not my fault if the Watch harm her.”

“You care of your own head, I hope. It isn’t very secure on your shoulders if you ignore this plea and the king finds out. You were first supposed to command his van when he set out, and now you’d wash your hands of him?”

“Battle one thing, this… Watch fighting each other, is something else. I don’t want to get involved. Besides if the Bolton man is coming, then Stannis is dead already.”

“If Bolton wins, we’re as good as dead. He’ll hang us as traitors. He may be lying about Stannis, but if he isn’t, we must do anything to stop him.” But his defiance is only the boy in him talking. The man knows where his duty lies, though it’s clear that it’s an unpleasant one. The mention of the Thenn women and children seems tacked on to ensure that he responds, but he cannot risk their lives.  She suspects the Magnar is secretly flattered that the Watch asks for the Thenns’ assistance.

Sigorn goes out to the yard and shouts, and soon the yard and ramparts are crowded with soldiers. They listen, hushed, when the Magnar launches into an explanation followed by sharp commands. Alys is still standing in the doorway of the smithy, peering up at the solemn faces on the battlements through the darkening evening air. She can guess what her husband is saying by the alternating expressions of shock and concern on the faces of the warriors. “I take all horse with me. We ride at dawn tomorrow, scout along the Kingsroad for the Bolton host. The footmen stay, and Emund commands them when I’m gone” Sigorn says to her in passing.

She sits alone in their bedchamber, waiting and waiting. Sigorn is preparing his men for tomorrow, but she can’t go to sleep before speaking to him one more time. The candle gutters out, and she doesn’t rummage for a new one, sitting instead closer to the fire and half dozing in her chair. Finally the door opens and her husband enters, looking weary and distracted.

Alys rises from the chair. “My lord Magnar, there is something I must tell you now.” Sigorn seems more interested in getting to bed, pulling his shirt over his head as soon as the door is closed, but something in her tone makes him pause.

“I am with child.” Her hand strays protectively over her belly, even though the roundness is barely noticeable. She has had her suspicions for some time, but as her moon’s blood hadn’t come since she ran away, she wasn’t sure until she’d begun to feel ill in the mornings. Sigorn stares at her in the twilight, taking in her stance as the words slowly translate in his head.

“Good. That is… good.” Stiffly, he takes hold of her arms and embraces her, made awkward by his obvious relief.

“I wasn’t sure until a little while ago. I wish I could have told you in a better time.” She lays her head against the coarse wool of his shirt. He doesn’t whoop with joy and lift her up in his arms, like she’d half hoped he would, but his voice is thick with emotion when he speaks. “If I don’t come back, name him Styr, for my father.” “If it’s a girl?” It’s clear that he hadn’t thought of this possibility, but solemnly he considers it for a moment. “Brynhild, it means a battle maiden. Is a legend of our people, Emund knows it.“ “I promise.”

 In a gesture that means more from him than a thousand words from a lesser man, he lays his hand gently on the curve of her stomach. She thinks of this child in the darkness of her womb never knowing its father, and something breaks inside her. After Torr and Edd died, she thought she didn’t have any more tears left. She didn’t cry when the news came of Lord Rickard’s end, didn’t cry when she had to flee her home, and not when she stood beside a stranger and pledged herself to him. She tries to compose herself, terrified that this stern and stoic man will think less of her if he sees her cry, but in vain. “I’m sorry” she manages to say between sobs as tears stream down her face. She tries ineffectually to wipe them with her hands, afraid that the fabric will be ruined if she blots them with her sleeve.

“Why you cry?” His tone is not unkind.

“I can’t bear any more mourning. First my betrothed, then my family, my childhood friends, Lord Snow… I know you hated him, but he was my kinsman and my friend. I can’t go on if I have to grieve for my husband too.”

“Would you grieve for me?” he asks bluntly. She turns her face upwards to meet his gaze through the tears.

“I would grieve for the loss of my lord and husband, for the child who wouldn’t know his father, but I would also grieve for… you.” She must lower her eyes, abashed by the depth of her feelings.

“I’m forever grateful that you gave me back my home, but it’s more than that. It’s been… It’s been an honor to be your wife.” Sigorn pulls her close and buries his face in her hair.

“Don’t grieve for me. If I die, I will die a lord, not a lackey of the crows.” He pauses, searching for words. “It has been an honor for me too. And a great joy. I … don’t know how to say it...”

Alys finally finds her courage. “I hope that what you are trying to say is ‘I love you’, because that is what I must tell you. I know we didn’t marry for love, but it’s true all the same. I love you, Sigorn.” He almost laughs despite the situation. “I think it is. I love you.” He turns her face upwards, and the kiss he gives her is enough to dispel her last doubts.


	7. Epilogue ~Wildlings in King's Landing~

It is high summer, and Alys is sweltering as the wagon pulls through the city gates. Sigorn must regret that he chose to wear the cloak adorned with shadow-cat furs. It’s impressive, no doubt, just something that one would expect a Northern lord to wear when he rides into King’s Landing, but it must be terribly hot. He’s far too proud to cast it aside now, so he’d rather boil to death in it. At least he is riding outside in the cool breeze while they are confined in this stuffy wagon.

“Look, _morin_ , there’s the castle!” “Yes, and that huge house on the hill must be Baelor’s Sept. But Edd, do you remember what I told you?” The six-year-old shakes his head, the picture of innocence.

“You must call me your lady mother when we’re here. People here don’t understand the Old Tongue, they’ll think you’re a bunch of right little savages if you speak it.”

“Savages, savages! We’re savages!” Edd and nine-year-old Lysanna chant in unison, prompting a contemptuous look from Styr, who is twelve and thinks himself nearly a man grown, above the childishness of his siblings. Brynhild doesn’t even hear the racket. She is craning her neck to catch a last glimpse of the castle, no doubt picturing the splendor of the court and the excitement of the tourneys ahead.

A great many banners undulate in the breeze as they drive nearer the castle gates. The knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms have set up their camp around the tourney grounds. Alys must not be the only one for whom some of the sigils are like a knife to the heart. Few of the men who gather under the banners now are the same who hoisted them when the war began, but they bring along the shadows of so many, fathers, brothers, friends…The summer is beautiful and the nature at its most lush and abundant, but ivy hasn’t yet covered the ruined keeps they passed on their journey. And among the rolling fields they sometimes drew near a village, hoping for a moment’s rest and a drink from the well, only to realize that the houses were empty shells on the brink of collapse.

“Look, Brynhild, there’s the merman of the Manderlys. Let’s hope young Staffon wins the tourney. You know, he might crown you the queen of love and beauty.”

Brynhild makes a face. “Staffon is so dull.”

“Staffon is the heir of Lord Manderly, and you should be honored that he’s shown an interest in you.  You think every young man you meet is dull, or else they are too short, too plain, too shy… it makes me despair of finding you a husband. Perhaps we should offer you to any man who can steal you away? That’s how your father’s people did it, back in the old days.”

Even Edd sniggers at this, and Brynhild blushes furiously like any fourteen-year-old who is teased about her suitors.

She looks back out of the window. “Oh, we passed the tents already. Do you think Kevan Lannister will be there? Did you see his banner?”

“I saw the Lannister lion, yes. What makes you think of him, of all people? Isn’t he the younger son of Lord Lannister? I don’t think I’ve ever even laid eyes on him.”

“But you have, last year at the Tourney of the North in Winterfell. He came second, but it was only because his horse stumbled, he told me…” Styr, always quick on the uptake, shoots his sister a curious look and Brynhild’s mouth snaps shut.

Horrified, Alys stares at her daughter, who has turned an even deeper shade of crimson. _Hasn’t she heard of the Young Wolf and his Red Wedding? The Lannisters and their henchmen nearly killed the north like they killed its king._ Now she remembers a golden-haired boy with a winning smile, who seemed to appear suspiciously often somewhere near Brynhild and her friends. She didn’t recognize the boy, but she never got around to asking her daughter, and Brynhild never volunteered a name. Alys must’ve thought he was dangling after some other girl and forgotten about him.

The thought makes her furious. If she’d known, she’d asked Sigorn to chase the boy away, though he might have grumbled about it. Even after all these years, he is strangely oblivious to the history of the War of the Five Kings. He has learned to pass so well that people sometimes accidentally call him Lord Karstark, to his great annoyance, but he confesses that the ancient grudges and feuds between the great families do not particularly excite him. All the noble houses still seem somewhat the one and the same to him. _Well, I suppose I can’t blame him. After having to flee the Others, the reasons why mortal men were busily slaughtering each other on this side of the Wall must have seemed quite insignificant._

Alys is about to open her mouth to give her daughter a piece of her mind, but something about the girl’s stubborn outlook makes her reconsider. _Maybe the young people do know all they need about the war. I don’t believe the Lannisters remember my father very fondly either. For one of them to seek out my daughter… Well, I don’t quite know what that means, but perhaps we’ll see. I think we’ll have to forget about young Manderly, at any rate. When Brynhild gets that look, she is not particularly open to persuasion._


End file.
